Imperfection: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
by Crystalwren
Summary: Gonzoverse. Integra wears her mother's wedding dress and dances as the rain comes down.


The rain came down.

Three straight weeks of rain. The only time it stopped was when it made way for sleet. The warlocks stayed at home; the werewolves curled up in front of the fire; the vampires kept themselves to themselves and Integra Hellsing caught up on her paperwork while her soldiers cleaned the creeping rust off their guns. The entire British Isles laid low under this dripping, bastard rain.

On the third Sunday Integra Hellsing took a lamp and, on a whim, went up into the attics of her vast house. Three attics, one for each wing but only one of these held anything remotely personal. She walked up the stairs and dust rose at every step. In the attic proper the sound of the rain on the roof was loud but not unbearable. Grey light filtered through the windows, grey light, grey sheets, grey dust, grey on her skin and on the back of her tongue. Beneath her right breast, two puncture wounds, the edges ragged and bloodless.

She held her lamp high and looked around. Furniture and tea chests and dozens of mirrors surrounded her. She'd almost cleared the entire mansion of them in the past five years. On canvases, people dead for a hundred years peered out at her through cracked and yellowing varnish.

"Hello, great-grandfather," she whispered to an old man with sad, weary eyes as she trailed her fingers across his face. Movement out of the corner of her eye made her start, but it was just her reflection. She turned away.

She found what she was looking for.

A carved camphorwood chest sat under one of the windows. Integra sat her lamp on the neck-stump of a dressmaker's dummy and knelt in front of the chest, tucking her skirt neatly underneath her legs. Opening it released the heavy, saturated scent of climbing Blackboy roses and she sneezed. She looked around automatically, then shrugged and wiped her nose on her sleave. She reached inside the chest. Dead, dry rose petals scattered as she peeled back layers of tissue paper. Books. Photograph albums. Underneath, a package of yellowing silk. She opened a diary. In it, careful pen strokes in purple ink. She didn't read Hindi well, but she could manage a word here and there: _'This morning Arthur came to me with a bouquet of red roses…my father does not want me to marry this man, this Christian…'_ She flicked through the brittle pages, and from between them a photograph slipped out: her father, his face clear and unlined, laughing, with his arm draped around Walter. On the back, a caption in more Hindi: _'The man I love.'_ A date, but no place. Integra sighed, putting the photograph back and setting the diary aside.

She pulled the photograph albums out and stacked them next to her. She would take them downstairs later as there was no reason why they couldn't be moved to the library. A statue of Ganesha, elegantly wrought in bronze clinked under her hand and she picked it up and held it to the light. It was beautiful, even if it was a heathen idol. She hesitated for a moment, and then set it down on top of the photograph albums. God would surely permit her to keep this small remembrance of her mother. It was only a little thing after all.

Stacking the remaining books one on top of the other, she was able to pull free the package of old silk. She turned it over, undid the knots. Inside was more white silk, embroidered with gold thread. Unfolding it produced cascades of rose petals and a renewed cloud of perfume that made her nose itch. Itching nose or not, it didn't stop her from exclaiming in delight as she shook open the cloth. An exquisite white wedding sari, quite the most beautiful garment that she'd ever seen. She draped the old cloth over her head and ran to the nearest mirror. Through the dust the gold thread seemed to glow and make her eyes even bluer. Integra wrapped the cloth more securely around herself and bit her lip with indecision. To dress up in her mother's wedding finery seemed childish at the very least; at worst disrespectful.

The indecision didn't last very long. She was all of eighteen after all, and eighteen-year-olds aren't usually noted for their self-restraint. She started hard at her reflection, looking for shadows that shouldn't be there, but even though the light was dim outside it was still midday and the vampire would be sleeping. Integra went back to the chest, took off her plain blouse and her plain skirt. She reverently slid the gold petticoat up her thin hips. The short gold blouse buttoned, but tightly in front; her mother, it seemed, had had smaller breasts and wider shoulders, but not hugely so. Integra could still wear it, but probably not for much longer if her own breasts became any fuller. The edge of the blouse came to just above the bite marks, leaving her midriff scandalously bare. Last, the sari. She'd not worn one before but she had seen photographs. She tucked one end of the sari into the petticoat band at her back and wrapped it around her hips. She draped it over her shoulder, and then, over her hair.

The girl in the mirror was beautiful, exotic. Blue-eyed and coffee cream skin in a silken wedding sari. Integra stared at her reflection, mesmerised. Stands of hair fell about her face, set off by the richer gold of the embroidery.

Feeling silly, she set her hands together as if she were praying and curtseyed low. She raised her arms in a pose that she had seen Indian dancers take, then took another pose, then another. She twirled once, to see if she liked it, then again to make sure. She laughed, and twirled, and twirled, the silk rising and flowing and all around her the scent of Blackboy roses…. 

Suddenly, she stopped. She blushed, feeling embarrassed and childish. Walter stood there watching, the strangest expression on his face.

He blinked slowly, shook his head as if to clear it. He said, "forgive me for disturbing you, Sir Integra," and gave her that peculiar expression again.

She looked away, miserable. "I suppose you think this is pretty stupid," she said, plucking at the material, surreptitiously arranging it to cover the puncture wounds, the place where it hurt.

"Not at all," replied Walter gently, "it just struck me how much like your mother you looked."

"I didn't think I looked much like her at all."

The butler stepped towards her. He reached out to touch her hair and, astonished by this rare gesture, she let him. He arranged the cloth over her shoulder, fussing at his until it hung properly.

"You don't look like her," he said. "You have her skin, and her height, but you are your father's daughter. But sometimes, when you tilt your head just so…" he smiled, and she found herself smiling back. "Your mother was very beautiful." 

"Am I?"

"You're beautiful too, Sir Integra." He stoked her shoulders gently, and then slid his hands down her bare arms. She shivered suddenly, and jumped when he slipped his hand under the fabric, onto her rib cage. He squeezed ever-so-gently, and she flinched. "I thought so," he said quietly. Resting his forehead against hers he whispered, "I know. I know what you're been doing with Alucard. I know that it's been going on for a very long time," and Integra gasped like something had kicked her in the chest. She tried to flinch away but Walter pressed his palms to the side of her head and held tight. "It's all right. It's all right. Hush," he soothed, and he pulled her into his arms.

She buried her burning face in his chest. "I suppose you think that I'm a whore," she said bitterly.

"No, no," he crooned, "Nothing like that at all. Considering the circumstances, maybe it's even understandable. But Sir Integral," he pushed her away just enough to see her face, "to let him bite you is another matter entirely. In the first place it's too risky, and ultimately, you are the master. Not him. Understand?"

"Yes," she said, looking away, looking at their reflections in the mirrors. 

"You're too much of a lady for that." Gently he forced her to meet his eyes. "Promise me that it won't happen again. Promise me that you won't take a risk like that again. Promise me that you won't subject yourself to him."

Integra shuddered. "I promise," she said thickly. "I promise."

Walter smiled. "I'm glad." He stroked her face with his forefinger. "You know, I have never seen you look so lovely as you do now." He leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. A gentle kiss over each of her eyes. A last, lingering kiss across her mouth and then he stepped back. He bowed formally and the old polite mask slipped over his features again. "I came to see if you were really for lunch," he said.

Integra blinked at him slowly. "Yes," she said thickly, "I'll be down shortly."

He bowed again, his hand over his heart. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone wearing her mother's white silk wedding sari with a pain under her breast, leaving her in the dim, dusty attic. Leaving her surrounded by her reflections and listening to the sound of the rain coming down, drumming on the roof over her head.

_Cross-posted to AFF dot net as part of my _Imperfection _series._


End file.
